


Cool Your Porridge

by orphan_account



Series: Like Pieces of a Puzzle [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, Eventual Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Lavellan can be a Jerk, M/M, Slight Falling-Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 00:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8919064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Lavellan has issues concerning Dorian; that always ends well.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Lavellan is an ungrateful prick.

_Sniff_.

One more step.

 _Snort_.

By Mythal's mercy - don't just _snort_ ; Josephine would pull your ears should she ever hear. If needed to snort, you should instead bring one elegant _gloved_ hand to conceal your mouth, _before_ doing the act. She forces you into enough ridiculous, time-consuming soirees already. You could _really_ do without the added etiquette classes - your schedule's packed as it is.

Alright, close enough, now. Just a little more—

" _Agh_ — _mffph_!"

Mahanon Lavellan slowly released his hand's grip over his nose and mouth. A close shave, he thought. The amount of relief that he felt from not having to wipe any fluids from his nose was near to ridiculous. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he gripped the railings that led to his personal quarters.

Several more metres to go. He could do this... _hopefully_ without toppling over, as he had done in the War Room just earlier. Leliana had made a - surprising of her - humorous remark, whilst Cullen merely shook his head in sympathy. Josephine, however, had instantly hit him on the back - though with restrained strength - and chided him on needing to maintain good posture.

As one shaking, pale - naturally, he was considerably tanned - _thanks_ ailment! - hand pushed the wooden door ajar, he kicked off his boots off to the far corner of the abyss, before staggering over to his desk. He then scowled as he lowered his weakened body into the plush seat.

A pile of unread reports and letters lay on the surface, each screaming, " _Pick me_! _I'm important_!" Lavellan suppressed a sigh. He proceeded to allow himself a few _well_ - _deserved_ moments to mentally entertain the idea of tossing the papers down the balcony. Perhaps, if he were so lucky, one would fly all the way to Corypheus and give him a lethal paper-cut.

Still, he had not said his prayers to the elven pantheon for quite some time. So, _that_ would be unlikely. Pity.

Right - work.

The elf gingerly lifted the first report - from Cullen - and despite his body wailing and bawling in protest, began to read. The words swam in front of him, cursive - whom was he attempting to kid; the Commander's writing was atrocious - and lumped together in one, big, intimidating paragraph.

Several minutes passed, and he finally was able to complete the long, dull task...

— _aaanndd_ two hundred and fifty thousand more to go. What _progress_! Yay!

" _Tch_ ," Lavellan gritted through his teeth. He placed the paper back down, before opting to lay his head on his arms. His lungs felt heavy and constricted. Moreover, he felt warm - not in that typical, gooey way that one usually experienced during passionate bouts of love - and cold, all at the same time. Huh - and there his companions were, complaining on how contradictory _he_ was.

"The Inquisitor's work is never done, I see."

"Not now, Dorian," he muttered, eyes already slipping close. He had heard the mage's sudden quips and unannounced entrances enough to stop feeling startled by them. Normally, he would come up with something on his own to shut the Altus up - but, currently, he desired nothing more than a long rest.

"Leliana's informed me of your... little _incidents_ about the keep." No such luck for Dorian to magically keep silent, apparently. Even blinded, Lavellan could sense the man stepping closer. _Go away_ , he silently willed. _Please_ , _Mythal_ , _a thousand blood sacrifice_ s _if you request it_ \- _I just wish to sleep_.

"First, tripping over a nobleman's foot, only to tumble down the stairs in an impressive acrobatic display." The amusement underlying his words was as clear as day. "Then, a coughing fit in the middle of a duchess's speech! I'm surprised Josephine has yet to have your head!" Directly behind him, now. "You never cease to amaze me, _amatus_ ," Dorian added with an edge of softness.

Lavellan did not bother to respond. He merely tucked his head tighter within his arms.

"Ignoring me, are you?" Dorian said with mock affront. "That will not do, Inquisitor. Josephine has specifically tasked me with the supervision of your public manners."

"We aren't exactly in the 'public' eye, Dorian," his fellow mage pointed out, finally deciding to meet his stare. However, within a few seconds, he went back to spreading himself over the desk. Funny how wood could feel so comfortable. Oh well, at least he could now be confident of his Dalish roots.

His paramour tutted. "Oh, point very well made. Shall I administer your punishment, then?" Lavellan failed to register the slight dip in his tone. "After all, it really isn't suitable for an audience." However, _that_ he did. Before Dorian could lay one hand upon his shoulder, Lavellan shied away.

"You are _not_ bedding me over my work desk." Sure - they had done it before, and even once in the gardens, as well as— No. Stop. That wasn't the point. _Go_. _To_. _Sleep_.

"Ah - such a shame. The bed, perhaps?"

"No, I don't want to. Go lavish your affections someplace else," he coughed, slight irritation beginning to arise from this unwanted disturbance. Pushing back from his seat, he began to make for the inviting bed, when a hand clamped itself around one wrist. The grip was gentle, though firm.

Had he mentioned that his mood had degenerated from irritable to just plain horrible by this point? Resisting the urge to fling Varric's Tale of the Champion towards his companion's face, he settled for grunting.

"I'm feeling unwell, Dorian. Leave me be." _Don't make me set your ass on fire_.

"Yes, and no." Dorian released his hold, before running his eyes over Lavellan, quietly assessing his form. An indiscernible emotion was within his gaze, but, then again, it never was easy picking up on his sentiments and the like. After several exhausting seconds, he clicked his tongue. "Simply dozing off is not going to cure your illness, _amatus_."

"No, but it sure will help me feel like I have a chance at living. Move it." He attempted to push the human away, but ended up bowling over in a hacking fit. As his vision blurred, and as his throat became violated by some invisible, accursed lump, Lavellan nonetheless tried to walk forward.

No such victory.

" _Falon'Din's tits_ —!" As he lost his balance over an ill-placed article of clothing, Dorian swiftly yanked him back up. Meeting with those hazel orbs, which held a 'I-told-you-so' look, Lavellan let out a deep growl. Roughly disengaging from the mage's grasp, he again attempted to make for the temptress that was his bed - and to-be final resting place, if his lover was going to persist in being an obstructive piece of shit.

"I see you remain as stubborn and obstinate as ever," Dorian commented disapprovingly. Lavellan was sure he then murmured, "—and annoyingly more so when sick."

After what seemed to be a dizzy, infinite path of unstable steps, he crawled beneath the duvet, where he was greeted with comforting warmth and cosiness. Much, _much_ better. As he curled into a tight ball, he told himself to not waste away for more than an hour. Errands still needed to be run, in the end.

"Are you plotting to rot beneath there? I don't fancy having to seek out another - no one quite lives up to _your_ standards."

"You talk too much, you know," Lavellan grumbled, yet already in a better temper. A soft surface really did do wonders.

"You enjoy my velvety voice, as I recall," was the retort. More silence. Then, an exasperated, "Truly? You will sleep on in spite your poor state of health? How will that fare you any better?" Dorian sounded almost incredulous when saying this, seemingly implying he had never slept whilst poorly. _His_ loss to never know the magical properties of a pillow.

He peeked over his shoulder. "If you so wish to know - it's already working."

Upon this, a heavy exhale escaped Dorian as his arms crossed. "Very well, you thick-headed oaf. Nonetheless, I shall bring up a cup of tea. Maker knows medicine is more effective than being comatose." Receiving no objection, even when Lavellan didn't like being fawned over, he proceeded to head out of the chambers, but not before stopping to oh-so-thoughtfully add, "Spindleweed, I should think."

The elf snapped his head to face the doorway. Amber irises glinting dangerously, he venomously voiced his less-than-agreeable thoughts, "Not a chance."

Had he forgotten to mention that he _despised_ the taste of spindleweed?

.

* * *

.

"You have not touched so much of a morsel of your meal, _amatus_ ," Dorian pointedly said, gesturing to the large bowl of steaming stew set before Lavellan. It contained an extra portion - meat, potatoes; all that nutritious gloppy goo.

Tevinter be damned, the temptation to force-feed him was nearly impossible to dismiss. Of course, if he did that, he would probably be swatted away - the elf really did not have a tolerance for being cooed at.

"I have not the appetite," the latter explained, restraining from allowing a scowl to mar his features.

Why exactly were they in Herald's Rest? The place to rest would be back in his _quarters_!

Normally, he held no grudges being there. However, he wasn't exactly feeling his best, and though the tea had indeed eased his suffering - despite him nearly gagging for every sip - he still felt like death. Stiff, sore, feverish formed an extremely gloomy elf, and the dark aura permeating from him made sure to warn everyone of his dismal disposition.

"You need the energy," the older mage said in a matter-of-fact way, as though stating a simple statement towards an ignorant child. "As much as I know my own strength, I really would prefer not having to drag you back to your quarters. It can't be good for the shoulders."

"We wouldn't _have_ that issue if you had just let me stay up there," Lavellan bit back, frowning. "Also, why did you wake me up this late? You _knew_ I had a meeting scheduled with Cullen." By the time he had been shaken awake by Dorian, the sun had long since set, and the spindleweed tea had grown cold.

What had sent him into a brief flurry was the realisation that he had overslept, and had completely missed the meet-up with the Commander. Afterwards, Dorian had informed him of the rescheduling. Yet, it had done little to help his panicking over the lost time. If anything, it beat the instance he had accidentally fallen off the battlements in Skyhold, down through the dilapidated roof of some dusty storage room.

"Ah," Dorian blinked, shifting his weight on the stool. "I'd cancelled your schedule for the day. You need the rest."

Lavellan looked from the meal to him in shock, and slight anger. "Dorian - I can't lollygag about Skyhold when there's a massive crack in the sky!" he argued, feeling even worse, if that were possible. He couldn't afford to waste a single day - every little matter _mattered_. How many lives were counting on him? Couldn't Dorian see the importance? "Relaxation will have to come _after_."

Dorian rolled his eyes in turn. "Everyday, you prance about from place to place the instant you wake, all without respite. It's tiring to watch you. This isn't about your enjoyment - it's for your health. Eat."

"As much as I appreciate your _thoughtful_ gesture, you shouldn't have meddled in my affairs. I can look after myself." It came out a little harsher than he had expected, and surprise jolted through him when he caught a flash of hurt in Dorian's eyes. As quick as it came, it soon dissipated, and the Altus shook his head, small smile playing on his lips.

"Alright, I submit _this_ time, mighty Inquisitor. If you do not wish to eat, I will not attempt to coerce you."

Lavellan paused. Had he been too rough? He hadn't actually meant for it to come across in such a fashion.

"Regrettably, I have other matters to attend to, _amatus_. You know where to find me, should you begin to yearn for my presence. Do try not to faint without me." A wink, and the man was soon out the door, and into the chilly night. He remained speechless for a moment. In a fraction of one second, he began analysing what had just occurred.

"' _When the going gets tough, the tough get going_.' Never would expect that saying to actually come true."

"Varric," Lavellan greeted the dwarf as the rogue took the now-vacant seat. He still felt taken aback at the turn of things. Perhaps it wasn't _that_ extraordinary, but he felt otherwise.

"Messed up there, didn't you? I'd been watching you two the moment Sparkler dragged you through the doors. Should've chosen a seat that wasn't in front of mine." Varric cleared his throat, before intertwining his fingers. "Look, Inquisitor, I'm not going to beat around the bush on this one. You may have hurt the mage's feelings."

"What—" he stopped himself, before shrugging. "Yes - I suppose I have." Honestly speaking, it wouldn't be the first time. He knew that. Just months ago they were trading coy insults and spitting fire, but why the unanticipated resurface? He hadn't changed his mannerisms much.

"Sometimes, you just got to let him do what he wants to do. As a friend. As a _partner_." This caused Lavellan to start, but Varric gave him a look.

"You're an independent, tough guy, Inquisitor, and we all know that. _Dorian_ especially knows that, better than any of us. You dislike being coddled, you can be a sharp-tongued, sarcastic jerk some days, and you place too much stress on yourself for the good of others.

"Maybe you can't see it - and I'm pretty sure you don't - but the lad cares for you through his actions. I couldn't tell you how many times he's cast those barriers over you in battle, even when you're not normally the one butting heads. He ain't the wordy-type, Inquisitor. You're difficult enough to handle as it is, and when you're touchy - _heh_."

"The burden is heavy. It hurts you, him," Cole's soft voice unexpectedly sounded, and before Lavellan knew it, his sunken eyes were burrowing deep into his, bloody big hat casting his conscience into literal shadow. So much for subtle guilt treatment. Thank Mythal for granting balance for living in the woods. His bum hurt and ached even when still; landing smack on the floorboard from shock would probably shatter it.

"Nug's piss!" came the dwarf's startled cry, chair scraping back sharply.

"Each pull, it throbs. He wants to help; he reaches out, but you don't let him. Sharp words, like a knife. _I don't need that_. _I don't need your help_. _What are you doi_ — _no_ , _I'm fine_. Cuts deep. Builds, building thick, thicker. He doesn't mean it, does he - just him being him? Insufferable elf. _I'd_ know. He's lost in the dark. Doesn't feel as it should. It is more, but yet, not. _How is this_ ' _more_ '?

"Tea, brewed with spindleweed. A drop of honey, to soothe the throat. No - too cold. A touch of fire. More potatoes - he likes those. Better - will it help? Uncertain, unsure. Is this right? He will try. Cast aside; meaningless - like before, like always. Interferes because _you_ matter, but no, you can't see that. Perhaps it is better I step back."

The young man peered at Lavellan, who had fallen silent. For all one could know, compared to his pair of shoes - presently, he wore slippers - he was nearer the bottom of the pit. "Did it help? I tried to... to make myself more— less 'cryptic', Varric keeps saying. I can't go to him - he's warned me away after the first time, but— but you— _you_ can help."

"That... was pretty good, Kid. I was actually able to understand most of it," the author patted Cole's shoulder, deciding to graciously ignore the fact that he'd caught wind of several personal issues. "You can go now, Kid. I'm sure you've helped a lot." He rubbed his face. "Like Cole just said, Inquisitor. You _did_ catch all that, right?

"All I'm - _we're_ \- trying to say is - _urgh_ , there really isn't any way to phrase all this..."

Maferath's knickers, he _really_ sucked at these type of genres.

"No. It's fine, Varric," Lavellan spoke up, nodding. The rogue watched him, doubtful - because, frankly, the mage really could be a blockhead, observant or no; a fine example would be tonight.

Disappointingly, the elf's face revealed nothing of his current thoughts, and neither did his speech. "I understand. Thank you. Pass that on to Cole for me." If the being could even be found.

"No problem. Bring the bowl with you."

.

* * *

.

Lavellan wavered near the door. He brought his ears closer to the surface, and almost barely, came the evidence of pages turning.

Per usual, Dorian was reading, or researching. The two often came as one package. It was a typical habit for the Altus to go through the day's work at night. A distant memory of ripping one particular book arose - he had been livid that day. Thankfully, he had since learned to keep his anger under control.

As Lavellan prepped himself to enter, Varric's and Cole's words came to mind.

He knew he wasn't the greatest person around - hell, even his hart seemed to be of a higher standing, and she was such a fiery, stubborn beast - and had flaws that would have sent the Maker fleeing anyway, if he were to consider the humans' teachings, had He not left. Still, maybe they were right. He shouldn't have been selfish and wrapped up in himself.

Recollecting the way he freed his wrist from Dorian's hands, and how he even tried to forcefully manoeuvre from him... How long had Dorian been been forced to endure his being pushed to the corner? To have his own concern flung back to his face?

 _Since the day you two stopped cursing each other to the far ends of Corypheus's hole_.

His ears twitched.

That would mean a few _months_... _at_ _best_.

Okay. Point taken.

Lavellan felt a surge of remorse. Vivienne was right, too. He _did_ stink at being perceptive of other's emotions, and wouldn't last an hour in the Game. He knew of Dorian's personal problems, and yet, he opted to toss them overboard in preference of his own desires. Why hadn't he seen that he was hurting the mage?  _Too far up that darkspawn's ass_. Hm, maybe Dorian's cuss _had_ actually worked.

As he stepped in, Dorian did not look up. Rather, he absentmindedly said, "Back, are you?" whilst reaching for another tome Josephine had kindly acquired for him. The bed was littered with papers and whatever could be traced to Dorian's doing. "Had a good meal?"

Lavellan offered a small, all's-gone-to-shit smile as their eyes met. "If you mean a dosage of reality, yes." Displeasure flitted across Dorian's face as he eyed the still-piping hot stew. He opened his mouth to say something, probably another jinx, when he abruptly closed it.

With a shake of his head, he sighed - somewhat in an exaggerated manner, "As picky as ever, _amatus_. Even _I_ have had to adjust my tastes to complement you Southerners." Then, a sharper, more curious look. "Why bring it here? You aren't planning to relive the good days of bickering?" There it was again - the slightest hint of pain on his jovial face.

"No," Lavellan admitted, walking over to his side. Dorian cleared away a spot, and he sat, wooden crockery balancing precariously on his lap. "Haven't had the intention to dump it over your head in months. I'd say we're making progress." He did not receive his usual reply of jest and wit. The mage clearly was expecting something to follow suit. Either that, or he was hurt more deeply than Lavellan had assumed.

"I'm sorry."

It was all he could say, really. He never was the best at admitting his faults. Two words, but he'd tried to convey his apology and sincerity as best he could within them.

He watched, tense, as Dorian blinked once, twice, processing its meaning. Finally, the edges of his lips curled, before the man huffed. "Well, you _have_ been acting quite the petulant child. Was it Varric? I _knew_ I should've picked a seat farthest from his prying."

"Cole, too," Lavellan helpfully added, relieved. He had understood the unspoken words, and the many more unspoken apologies, between lines. He hadn't expected to be forgiven _this_ easily, though. If he were in the Altus's shoes, he would have flung him off Skyhold whilst cheering, all this prior to dropping a card regarding his well wishes, but who could say how Dorian's mind worked?

"Ah - I should have known," Dorian nodded sagely, briefly considering the depth the spirit had dug. Not that it made much of a difference; Lavellan pretty much knew. Heck, he had even brought them up during a heated argument, back when they both hated each other's guts. Low blow, but it was in the past.

He cleared his throat, obviously in greater spirits. "Care to share? I'm certain they must have had quite the lot to say." As though readying for a long, _long_ talk, he proceeded to make himself more at home, taking cushions to pile behind his back. Lavellan should have felt offended, but he only smiled.

"Let's see." He began counting off his fingers, recounting all that the two had said, all the way to his tenth. "—and from the last expression on his face, he must think that I have absolutely zero sense of being able to understand cues." Which, uh, was not too far from the truth.

"You _are_ observant, _amatus_ ," Dorian released a short laugh, embarrassed at having his own thoughts found out. _Mmph_ \- blame _his_ own sentimentality. "Just... perhaps _only_ on the battlefield. A foot out of that boundary, and you become as clueless as our beloved Seeker when inebriated." He shifted. "Not that it is a complete bad thing - it _does_ have its moments of endearment."

"Are you referring to Cassandra, or myself?" Lavellan arched a brow.

"Why, Cassandra, of course. Have you seen the way she giggles like a giddy schoolgirl? Exceedingly eye-catching. It's more nauseating than when she's reading that book of hers." Dorian was sitting upright, again. The elf's apology seemed to have granted him courage, as he slowly placed himself behind the elf's back. With movements that spoke volumes of hesitance to Lavellan, he began to rub small, slow circles around his nape.

"Landing on your neck as you bounce about is sure to plummet the Inquisitor's reputation. What of a broken neck? Imagine, the songs they would compose about the Herald of Andraste meeting his demise from the evils of one poorly placed foot of an Orlesian noble and stairway," Dorian chuckled. "—and here I thought the Evil Magister would have sufficed."

Lavellan flinched from the contact on his bruise and sore point, which immediately warranted for a gentler touch. Instinctively, he considered pulling away, as he had always done in the past. Of course, he didn't, and instead, allowed himself to lean against his companion, where he felt Dorian tense up, before slackening.

"I suppose I'll have to place an order for two fruit baskets now, for eliciting such a drastic change."

Lavellan snorted, as he relaxed farther in. It had to be said, the sensation of being massaged and having attention lavished upon him verily felt good. Maybe it only felt this way since it was coming from Dorian. "This isn't all too bad," he murmured, lids drooping. "I suppose a _little_ bit of nannying can't possibly hurt anyone."

A hum of pleasure escaped Dorian. "As disgustingly syrupy this all is, don't fall asleep on me, yet, _amatus_. I expect that bowl to be emptied of its contents before you go nodding off."

No protest leaving his lips, Lavellan lazily picked up his silverware, even with his lack of esurience.

**Author's Note:**

> Not the best work I've done, I feel. I couldn't get the second and third part to fit in with my own ideas.  
> Nonetheless, I hope you've enjoyed it.
> 
> I'm really horrible at writing fluff. I'm not exactly the type to be able to handle romance without a small dosage of squirming, and that's just the tip of the iceberg.


End file.
